


Fresh Air & Sunshine

by Laclavande



Category: Red Dead Redemption, Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Chapter 6: Beaver Hollow (Red Dead Redemption 2)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 17:27:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21201377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laclavande/pseuds/Laclavande
Summary: “How many times have I been close to death and you’ve pulled me from the brink?"“Too many,” replied Arthur with something that almost resembled a smile."Let me return the favour.”Arthur's last sunrise, as it turns out, was not his last. The outlaw is given another chance at life, but death and depression still grip him. It's a good thing he has Albert Mason to keep him company.





	1. Chapter 1

He felt himself slipping away. The pain became numbness, the world grew darker, and Arthur was sure he was dying. He dragged himself to the edge just to rest against a rock and watch the sunrise one last time, using the last of his energy to do so. Death was freedom, death was peace, and with his last slow breath he accepted it, neither happily nor unhappily, he just did. He closed his eyes and slipped away, sad that his time had ended, but glad he had been able to do one last loving act.

Dark birds circled above. Black dots against the white of an overcast sky. Arthur’s eyes were heavy as he watched them, one was almost completely swollen shut, and the rest of his body ached something fierce, like no hangover he had ever experienced. The numbness hadn’t lasted. Exhaustion quickly shut him down again. Maybe this time he’d do it right and die.

The next time he opened his eyes there was less to see. It was dark, and the stars were invisible, blanketed by clouds. But he found that he had moved a few feet from what he had decided was to be his resting place, in a direction he hadn’t remembered choosing. Despite having no strength at all, he somehow kept moving. A dead man crawling through the darkness. He was barely thinking, his only thought was that he wanted to rest, but something within him was forcing him on.

Arthur woke up again further down the mountain. It was still nighttime but it was brighter now, the clouds had moved on— or perhaps it was an entirely different night. The world had stopped making sense, pain and exhaustion consuming every thought, time and memory leaving his mind like visible heat rising from cold earth.

A buck carefully tread the forest floor in the moonlight. It was a familiar sight, the buck from his dreams. It was a whitetail, beautiful, and the sight of it took his focus from the pain if only a little. The animal suddenly turned its head and looked right up at Arthur, who was laying some distance away on a ledge above. It stared at him for a long time before moving on, and when it left Arthur’s sight, his already laboured breathing was interrupted by a fit of coughing that was insufferable, as all his bouts were. He didn’t bother to cover his mouth as the dry, deep sickness came out as something that was more like a scream than a cough, and blood spattered out on the stone beside him, forming a glistening red constellation to match the stars above. Arthur was tired, so tired. He crawled to the wall and for the first time since he fell from Micah’s hand, he stood up. Arthur walked the rest of the way down the mountain. It was slow and he walked blindly, his legs quivering beneath him with every step, so weak.

He had no idea how long he was walking for, his mind had shut down again, but when his consciousness returned to his body he found that the ground he walked was level and he could see the trees around him instead of below. The sun had returned, Arthur had finally stepped out of the gloom, but it was only his surroundings that were bright. Inside he was still dying, inside he was desperately sad. He wished for his mind to abandon his body again, to flee from his suffering, but his consciousness was painfully present, hyperaware of everything that was happening. He took one more small step before he collapsed to his knees in the dirt and fell flat on his front. The impact hurt his already injured body, but the ground was so comfortably inviting as he breathed in the comforting smell of earth and ever-present decay that one always finds in a forest.

* * *

Albert pulled out his map again, though confident that he was not lost, it never hurts to check. Satisfied that he was where he knew himself to be, he rolled up the brand new map and tucked it away in his satchel before continuing on the road he was on. He took a moment to admire the song of some birds close by and when his attention was back on the road, there was a deer standing there, its big antlers casting an imposing twisting shadow between the animal itself and Albert’s horse. Albert stopped to admire this creature too. In his experience, deer don’t usually stick around when they notice humans, but this one was looking right at him and not moving. His thoughts flicked to Arthur Morgan, thinking that if he were there he’d probably greet the animal. A man so gentle and kind that he even treats animals like they were his friends. Then the buck’s head quickly turned to listen to some distant rustling and it bounded away further down the road. Albert prompted his horse onwards, a few moments later inadvertently catching up to the buck again. It had calmed down and was now walking. Albert slowed his pace to follow behind, cautious about spooking it. Then they found themselves at a crossroads. Albert had intended to go left, but the deer was taking the path on the right. Albert turned his intended way, twisting his neck to get one last look at the mysterious creature. Looking up where the deer was heading, a dark lump caught Albert’s eye. It looked like a body, just laying there on the other side of the bridge. Fear suddenly took hold of Albert. He’d heard stories of the Murfree Brood in these parts, had been warned of them. If that lump was indeed a corpse it could be one of their victims, maybe even a trap to lure him in and butcher him too. But the buck was so beautiful and undisturbed— surely if there were men hiding in the woods to ambush him the buck would be long gone.

“Damn me and my terrible judgement,” he muttered aloud.

Albert turned right and crossed the bridge. With his fearful eyes locked on the body, the buck disappeared, and Albert’s heart boomed in his chest. Still atop his horse, Albert looked down at the body. Perhaps he’d better turn back and tell someone in town what he saw. If the man was dead there was no need to check. But what if he wasn’t?

“Hello? Sir?”

No response. Albert took a deep breath and climbed down from his mount. He took another second to approach, and when he did he thought the man’s coat looked familiar, the hair too— _but it wasn’t, it couldn’t be_. He stood over the man for a few moments, scared about what he was about to see. No matter what, it wasn’t going to be good. His heart pounding painfully now, Albert slowly leaned down, forcing his knees to bend. He took the man by the shoulders and turned him over, grunting as he did so, as thin as he looked he was still heavy. Albert gasped and let out a cry as tears welled in his eyes. It was his friend Arthur Morgan.

“Oh, God.”

His face was swollen; covered with blood and bruises and his lips were cut and purple, he was barely recognisable. Albert stood up quickly and looked away. He covered his face with his hands as he tried to calm his erratic heart and suppress the sobs that were bound to surface at any moment. Then he heard a long groan. He turned back around and stared intently at Arthur’s chest. It rose a little.

“You’re still alive,” he whispered, then louder, “You’re still alive!”

Albert rushed to kneel beside Arthur and rather awkwardly placed a hand on his chest, _feeling_ him breathe, and now with his heart no longer booming in his ears, he could hear him breathing too, soft and wheezy.

“M-Mr Morgan.”

At the sound of his name (or was it Albert’s voice?), Arthur’s eyes slowly opened. Blinking at the brightness he could make out a figure hovering above him with a halo behind its head.

_I don’t know how this could be, but I must be going to heaven after all_. When his eyes adjusted and his true sense came back, including the pain, he saw that the figure was not an angel, it was Albert Mason— his halo had only been his hat. Concern was fixed in his expression like one of his photographs; untouchable, unchangeable. Arthur had seen such an expression on his face before, formed after warnings of how wolves and gators kill and devour their prey, but never had Albert seemed so deeply perturbed. Arthur was sorry that Albert had to see him like this, no doubt he looked like absolute death.

“Last time I saw you,” he managed to wheeze, “you said you was goin’ home.”

The side of Albert’s mouth gave a small tug, an attempt at a smile, as he was glad that he was able to talk,

“And give up?,” he said, “Whatever would I do that for?”

_Give up_. That was what Arthur wanted to do, had tried to do, but something just wasn’t letting him.

“Can you move?”

“Mhmm.”

Albert took his arm as he helped him slowly sit up, letting him take his time.

“Let’s get you onto the horse,” he said, “Come on, we’ll get you help, don’t you worry.”

Now on his feet, Arthur coughed a little as Albert helped him to the horse with an arm held across Albert’s shoulders. The diffident photographer was stronger than Arthur might’ve imagined, and he felt safe at last with Albert holding him. It was a feeling he hadn’t realised he was missing, he had been without it for so long. After a difficult mount, Arthur looked down at Albert, lethargic, out of it, while Albert’s attention was on making sure his boots were secure in the stirrups. Angel or not, Arthur was still convinced that he was imagining Albert, it seemed so bizarre that he was there. Of all the people that could have found him…

“Thank you,” Arthur said quietly, his voice a hoarse whisper that Albert barely caught. He looked up and finally the concern left his face for a moment to smile at him, more properly this time, heartfelt. For once in his life Albert took caution with safety as he led the horse, travelling carefully back the way he had come, all the way to Annesburg.

* * *

The lodging was comfortable, though it seemed the floor would be just as comfortable as the bed. Arthur didn’t care, he was just glad to be off the horse and finally warm. He lay still, his eyes closed, not quite asleep, not quite awake. He was thinking about it all, everything he lost, every_one_ he lost— it truly was _everything_. Anger and grief were poisoning his already broken body and it hurt so much.

Albert hovered at his bedside, the adrenaline had worn off and he was left to fidget with his hands, unsure of his responsibility to this man. There was a knock at the door to interrupt Albert’s musings, but not Arthur’s. He did not respond to the sound at all.

“The water you asked for,” said the owner of the house and adjoining gunshop as he handed Albert a glass of water, “And the doctor will be here soon. But uh if he dies…”

“I am trying to keep him alive, but yes?”

“If he dies, do you think you could get him outside before he goes? I don’t want—”

“Thank you for the water.”

Albert closed the door and leaned against it for a moment, watching the water sloshing in its glass. _He’s not dying. He’s not dying._

Albert set the glass down on the bedside table and drew up a chair. Arthur roused from his half-sleep when he came close, and Albert offered him the water. He only took a few small sips before sighing as he put his head back on the pillow.

“Mr Morgan,” Albert began, his voice low and tone gentle, “What happened to you?”

Arthur took a deep breath and closed his eyes,

“You don’t wanna know.”

On the verge of tears he’d never let loose, he spoke with such pain that his words hurt even Albert who shrank back into his chair awkwardly.

“Listen,” said Arthur, “you’ve done more than enough, you don’t have to stay.”

“Leave? Absolutely not. You were on death’s door when I found you, still are by all accounts. No, I’m going to take care of you.”

Albert surprised himself with his own claim— _I’m going to take care of him?_ But then he remembered Arthur’s kindness and all the times he’d saved his life selflessly. Right then Albert vowed to return the favour and do all he could to help his friend. But Arthur was less accepting.

“Don’t waste your time,” he said, “Please… I’m real sick. TB. You don’t wanna stick around.”

Albert suddenly felt a pang of guilt for bringing him to a mining town of all places where the air is foul and thick with smoke.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Then he was quiet for a moment, contemplating such an undertaking, and feeling very sorry for Arthur.

“Do you have somewhere to go?” He asked him after the momentary silence.

Arthur laughed humourlessly,

“No. Not anymore.”

“Well then, in that case, first things first we move you to Valentine. I’ll take you to Cumberland forest. The air is good out there.”

Arthur was too exhausted to protest more. Albert kept talking, something about plans and promises, as Arthur felt himself drifting off again, torn between wanting to not wake up again and staying alive. Strangely, both were for Albert’s sake.


	2. Chapter 2

Out of the literal woods, though not the figurative, a red stagecoach carried two passengers westwards. Trains weren’t able to make it West anymore— the tracks through the mountains were closed due to the construction at Bacchus Bridge. When Albert told Arthur of this before they left Annesburg, he said nothing of the fact that he had been the one who created the inconvenience. He sat uncomfortably in the coach, diagonally across from Albert, wrapped in a blanket and wearing new clothes. He didn’t want to think about all the money Albert had spent on him already. It seemed almost ridiculous that he was doing all this, but Arthur was so grateful. For everything, but mostly just for him being there. Arthur had never wanted Albert to leave and always regretted not saying anything when he said “bugger the eagles”. He had wished to see him again, if only one last time, and here he was, his knight in shining armour, his angel. Even in his weak, sick state, Arthur found humour in the reversal of their relationship. Albert looked up from his book for a moment to catch Arthur staring absently at him. He smiled, said nothing, and went back to his book.

When he had told Charles that he was dying, he had told Arthur that _**it is a gift to know**_.

What did Arthur know now? Everything was uncertain. Was he going to die or not? Did he _want_ to die or not? And why Albert? Arthur didn’t much believe in fate, but it must’ve had something to do with all of this. He had been certain he was going to die on that mountain and then he didn’t. His fate was not in his own hands that day, that’s for sure. If he was the decider of his own fate then he wouldn’t have been in that stagecoach listening to the roll of the wheels and pounding of hooves as they travelled across the plains.

“What were you doing out there anyway?” Arthur asked, breaking the lengthy silence.

“When I found you? I was looking for a moose. To photograph, of course.”

“Good… That’s good… It’s good you kept goin’, and I’m— I’m glad you didn’t leave,” he confessed. Albert smiled again,

“Me too.”

* * *

Arthur woke up in a very comfortable bed. It was some time in the afternoon, daylight filtering through the poorly fitted curtains. He was in one of the rooms in the Valentine Hotel. He’d been here before and for a moment he thought that he’d gone back in time and everyone was waiting for him to come back to camp at Horseshoe Overlook, that this whole disaster had been a very long very bad dream. Then Albert came into the room.

“Oh you’re awake!” He said, shuffling towards the bed. Arthur sat up and nodded in greeting. It hadn’t been a dream.

“I wasn’t sure you would wake, actually. You were breathing like… Like you were being strangled.”

“I told you…” Arthur wheezed and coughed into his fist a few times as if to prove his point, before managing to say, “I’m dyin’.”

“How many times have _I_ been close to death and you’ve pulled me from the brink?”

“Too many,” replied Arthur with something that almost resembled a smile.

“Let me return the favour.”

Arthur sighed and rubbed his face with his clean hand,

“You can’t save me.”

“I can try. And if I can’t then so be it. But at the _very_ least, I’m going to make sure you’re comfortable and _safe_. So here,” said Albert, holding out a small medicine bottle to Arthur, some health tonic the doctor had recommended. Arthur took it, but did not drink it yet.

“I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time. I can deal with this,” he said, no longer looking at his friend.

“You may be dying, Mr Morgan, but you can’t expect me to toss you out in the street and leave you like this! The fact that you’re dying only means you’re more deserving of care.”

Arthur frowned to himself, unsure if that was true. Then he looked back at Albert and he saw that he at least believed it.

“I don’t want this to be an ongoing argument, Mr. Morgan. Just take the blasted medicine and be done with it.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Mason. I am grateful. I just… I’m tired.”

“I know. Get some rest, I’ll be here if you need anything.”

It was three o’clock in the morning when Albert was startled awake by Arthur coughing like mad. He jumped out of his chair in the corner and went to help the sick man. It was lucky that he had fallen asleep there instead of going to his own room next door. Arthur was sitting at the edge of the bed, his head hanging between his knees as he coughed violently. Albert stood at his side and put his hand on Arthur’s back to let him know he was there. Then Albert saw the blood on the floorboards and on the linen. He was so taken aback, the sight was so shocking and _real_. He removed his hand momentarily, his first and most silly reaction was being afraid to touch Arthur. He was suddenly second-guessing if he could actually do this, actually help him. His optimism had deceived him.

“There there,” Albert mumbled awkwardly, replacing his hand, “you’re alright.”

Arthur’s coughing slowed and he was left breathless and looking as though he was about to collapse to the floor, so Albert helped him lie back down before he had the chance to. In the blue haze of darkness Arthur’s face was haunting as he tried to catch his breath, the blood on his lips was the brightest part of him and Albert decided against wiping it away, afraid of touching him and afraid of such an intimate act. Albert found it difficult to get back to sleep that night with the image of Arthur’s gaunt face at the forefront of his mind.

* * *

On the morning of their sixth day in Valentine, Arthur was sat on the rickety chair they had brought out onto the porch, basking in the smell of pigshit that permeated throughout the whole town as he dragged a needle across the surface of a candle. The image he had had in mind was a flower, vanilla maybe, but he wasn’t used to carving and the needle was too small, it was just a mess of lines in the wax. Albert was nearby, as he often was. If he wasn’t in the room with Arthur, he was in the next room, or just across the street. If it had been anyone else, Arthur reckoned he’d feel suffocated by them. Even so, as comfortable as he felt with Albert, he did get on his nerves with the nagging and monotony of it all. The boredom was _itching_ at him.

Albert, on the stairs, heard Arthur grumble and cough behind him when he made one last mistake with his project before snapping the candle in half.

Albert dropped the photos he’d been pawing through into his lap, some slipping out of the neat pile. He too was feeling a touch of cabin fever. He ached to be out in the wilds again, he needed to continue his project, add to the collection he had in his lap. Another overestimation of his abilities. His ability to sit still. And being cooped up in a quite frankly shitty hotel room cannot be good for the soul, and thus not good for the body— for both of them, but most of all Arthur. All he ever seemed to want to do was sit in his sad silence, which Albert thought might kill him quicker than the disease.

“How about an outing, hmm?” he posed. Arthur put his elbow upon the armrest of his chair and rested his chin on his fist, gazing at nothing, or perhaps at the worker’s camp across the way, where men with jobs and purpose were disappearing into the movie tent.

“It’s such a fine day. Down to the river perhaps?”

“I ain’t much in the mood for a field trip.”

“Don’t you want to get away for a bit? Fresh air, sunshine— it could be very good for you!”

Arthur raised his shoulders in a shrug.

“I’ve been living in tents my whole life I don’t see how being outside is going to help me now.”

“Tuberculosis isn’t always a death sentence,” Albert said gently, “Enough rest, clean air, and some relaxation—”

Arthur scoffed,

“Relaxation…”

“— and you could still live. You could live another fifty years.”

“Who says I want to?”

Albert’s breath got caught somewhere in his chest. Once again Arthur Morgan had rendered him silent. Arthur coughed, not enough to worry Albert about finding him some relief, but enough to remind them both of the situation.

“All those bad things I’ve done… This is what I deserve.”

To think this brilliant man thought so little of himself, it saddened Albert, deeply. But he ignored Arthur's contempt for himself, perhaps naïvely hopeful that he would one day realise his worth.

There was a long silence, Arthur drifting back into that habit of his, that sad silence. Staring at nothing, he didn’t notice that Albert had moved to stand beside him.

“You don’t even have to do anything,” he said softly, “In fact, I forbid it. We can just enjoy the outdoors.”

_Enjoy the outdoors— ha!_ Arthur almost scoffed again, but then he remembered. He used to be happy outside. Away from civilisation where he didn’t belong, and away from the gang where his troubles resided. Outside where there was some semblance of peace, of quiet, where he could think or not think at all and just sketch animals in his journal. _Oh, he missed his journal. _Arthur couldn’t remember the last time he went out just to ‘_enjoy the outdoors_’. Was probably months ago now. Part of him really wanted to go, leave this miserable shit-hole at least for a few hours. Maybe he’d get lucky and die under a tree listening to songbirds and Albert’s nattering instead of in a dark room that would never feel like home.

“Fine.”

“Good! I’ll pack my camera.”

* * *

Arthur often wondered how Albert ever gets anything done. The man talks all the time, and always with his hands. How he manages to still them long enough to take a picture is a miracle. Arthur supposed that his being there was definitely a hindrance to the process, though he also knew Albert to babble to himself even in the absence of company, Arthur had witnessed it himself many times.

“You understand me, Mr Morgan. You understand my admiration for nature, it is something we share! Though… The thrill of being so close to a wild animal— is it inherent in all mankind?”

Setting up his camera on the pebbly riverbank, Albert paused frequently as he talked. Arthur watched him from his comfortable seat in the buggy. With the horse hitched nearby, the buggy tipped forward, but Arthur was perfectly comfortable, especially with the blanket over his legs. The buggy was rented, much to the dismay of Arthur who thought the very concept was ridiculous, but there was no way Albert was going to let Arthur ride in a saddle, so the invalid would just have to deal with it.

“Maybe. But if that’s the case I think you’re one to be more thrilled than most,” Arthur chuckled lightly. Albert twisted to face him,

“Perhaps it has something to do with all this change,” he said with an air of mysticality, “this progress, the dawn of a new century… Modern man has lost his connection to the Earth, has become detached. Perhaps if I had lived another, more naturalistic life I might not care about animals as I do. But I was born indoors, I grew up indoors, I lived my whole life indoors until I came out here, and what a thrill it was. All this space! And all these creatures to share it with! You understand, don’t you?”

“… People always want what they don’t have.”

“That is… Quite true. How perceptive.”

And he turned his attention back to his camera and what might be found somewhere in front of it, though this close to Valentine he was more likely to capture a jackrabbit than a fantastic beast.

Arthur absently looked down at his lap and the pair of hands that rested on it as the light wind blew his hair into his eyes. It was getting so long. He brushed it out of the way and held up his hand to look closer. This hand was not his, it was alien. Weight-loss had stolen the shape from his hands, leaving behind these thin, knobbly, foreign things at the end of his arms. The small white scars found between his fingers were the only things left that made them still feel like they belonged to him. Arthur really didn’t feel quite like himself anymore.

Arthur had woken up in a fit every night, just like the first. No matter how open the windows had been during the day, letting fresh clean air into the room, no matter how well he had eaten, no matter how easily he had taken his medicine, he would always wake in the dead of night, unable to breathe. By the third night, Albert had become used to the routine. He’d wake before even Arthur did, and would be at his bedside to help him through the pain.

On the sixth, he clutched a cloth tightly in one hand as he used the other to smooth Arthur’s hunched back. When Arthur was done, Albert used the cloth to wipe the blood and spit from Arthur’s mouth and chin. He was always so lethargic after the nightly fits, Albert didn’t think he’d notice that he was touching him in such a way. He gave him water and a tonic to help him sleep and silently prayed that he’d still be there in the morning.

“Thank you… Albert.”

His gratitude was whispered in a moment of vulnerability, let slip as easily and as unconsciously as a muttered curse word. What was the use in formality now? After all this time, after all this familiarity? In the morning he would dare to call him Arthur.


	3. Chapter 3

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there’s a saloon right across the street, there’s a barber there.”

“But I’ll do it for free, and what does he have that I don’t?”

“Experience, for one.”

“Arthur…”

He’d done it. He’d called him Arthur. The only indication that the other man had even noticed was the smile that showed only in his eyes, soft and warm. It was hardly an acknowledgement, but Albert indulged himself all the same, succumbing to the tingling effects of his _daring intimacy_. They were on the subject of Arthur’s hair, and how much it needed to be cut. Albert had offered his services, partly because of his duty to care, though also, rather guiltily, as an excuse to be close to Arthur. Now that he’d gotten used to touching him in those rare moments, he didn't want to stop. It was almost a vice, a guilty pleasure.

“I get it, you’re taking care of me, but you don’t have to do _everything_!”

Albert’s technique with the scissors was certainly unique. He held the dark blond strands between pinched fingers, his grip lacking the gentle elegance of a trained barber, but he did not tug in the way a housewife might carelessly handle her children’s hair. There was just a mere clumsiness to it, something Arthur had come to expect from Albert, and a great care. Arthur did not complain. In fact it was rather relaxing, and he was never one to worry about his appearance anyway, lest things not go to plan. After a few snips, Arthur had begun to notice some lingering touches. There was no mirror for him to see what Albert was up to, but he felt the fingers running through his hair, the weight of a hand moving down the slope neck to rest on his shoulder. The already silent room grew quieter, each snip of the scissors accelerating Arthur’s heart. The more he cut, the closer he was to being done and the comfort of those lingering touches would be gone. Then Albert held his head still to cut over his ear, his large hand spreading over the side of his face. It was like a bolt of lightning shot through Arthur, and just as quick, his own hand shot up to cover Albert’s. The amateur barber immediately stopped and looked down at Arthur, concerned that something was wrong, or maybe he’d gone too far, ruined everything with a single touch. He was looking into his eyes. And just like that they were connected. All these weeks of bitterness and gloom and they were back to where they started. Arthur was looking at him then like he had the day he’d met him, with such fondness and curiosity. He was still sick and thin and weak, but inside he had come alive again, Albert could see it. Arthur sighed like he’d been holding his breath the whole time, and his eyes softened even more. Slowly, Arthur dropped his hand so that Albert could get back to his task, and even slower, he dropped his gaze. The scissors closed around one more piece of hair, the strands floating to the floor. Arthur coughed, though he tried to suppress it. The coughing continued, each small inhale and violent exhale a burning pain in his chest. Albert watched in despair as Arthur motioned that he was fine, to give him a moment, as he was spitting blood into his fist.

“Arthur!”

Arthur was mumbling and wheezing and his coughs were paired with painful wails. Albert dropped the scissors to the floor and was frantic as he tried to find the medicine on the other side of the room. There was a thump and a screech followed by a clatter behind him. Arthur had fallen off his chair and collapsed on the floor, where little pieces of hair stuck to his skin moistened by sweat. The coughing had stopped.

* * *

“We’re not talking months anymore, Mr Mason, not even weeks. This is it.”

Albert’s voice was so small,

“What can we do?”

“At this stage? No more than you’re already doing.”

Arthur watched the two hazy figures through his lashes, too weak to open his eyes. The figure he assumed was the doctor gathered his things and left, and Albert followed. They talked briefly in the hallway, trivial apologies and thank yous. Even after the doctor had left the hotel, Albert stayed outside the room. He wasn’t ready to go back in, wasn’t ready to face Arthur. He knew what he’d say. His head hit the wall and he slid down it, all the way to the floor. With his knees tucked up to his chest like a child, Albert sobbed. He cried for the first time in a long time, and for the first time because of Arthur. He felt so hopeless, so drained, so very sad. The inevitability was the worst part of all this. He knew he was dying, Arthur had told him so repeatedly, but it hadn’t felt this close before, not since Roanoke. He had seen Arthur’s death before him that day, and he saw it again now. This time was worse. Arthur had been his constant companion ever since, and although it hadn’t really been that long at all, Albert cared about Arthur, deeply. That was why he had to face him eventually. Albert finally caught his breath, dried his eyes, smoothed back his hair, and slid back up the wall. He crept back inside slowly, watching to see if Arthur was still asleep. He saw his head turn at the sound of Albert’s footsteps and he whispered something that Albert wasn’t expecting as he knelt beside the bed,

“I’m sorry… Albert, I’m sorry.”

Albert shushed him softly, but he kept talking.

“I won’t blame you if you leave me here.”

Tears welled in Albert’s eyes again, and he saw the shine of sadness in Arthur’s too, but they were tears he’d never see fall.

“Hush,” Albert said weakly.

“Wasting all your time, your money. I’m such a burden… I’ve said this before, not to you, but... I ain’t a person no more. I’m just a ghost,” Arthur’s voice ghosted with those last few words, fading into a whisper and fading into silence.

Albert would forgive himself for Arthur’s death, he understood that he was not at fault for the man’s suffering. He would, however, never forgive himself if he allowed him to die in a third rate hotel in a livestock town. So he came up with a plan, a very loose, very crazy plan, and said to Arthur,

“Stay here. Just rest, and don’t even think about moving.”

* * *

It was well into the evening when Albert returned. The bored working girl lurking by the door left before he could so much as thank her. She was not the same one that he had asked to mind Arthur. Rather than be annoyed, Albert was grateful that they had decided the favour they were granting him was important enough that more than one share the responsibility. After refusing them so many times he had a certain reputation among the girls there, but they obviously still thought him nice enough.

Exhausted from running around town all day, Albert threw his hat to the chair in the corner and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. Arthur was right where he had left him. He was asleep, his breathing strangled, but he was still breathing. Albert stood over him for a while, just watching. He had let himself get excited about his plan, but the reality of Arthur’s condition was bringing him back to that sad desperation.

“Arthur,” he whispered, his hand on Arthur’s crown, “I need you to hold on just one more day. One more day. It’ll be worth it. I promise.”

Albert handed over a couple bucks to the pair who had looked to be the strongest looking men in the saloon. Albert was quickly running out of money, especially after everything he spent yesterday putting his plan in motion. He’d have to start selling his work soon, or -shock horror- write home and ask for a loan. Albert observed the men closely as they lifted the blankets that carried Arthur all the way out of the room and down the stairs to the wagon waiting outside, where he awkwardly helped them transfer Arthur’s light frame onto the new bed. Arthur was lethargic after such a difficult night, he just let them move him around. Arthur’s sense of time was warped, it felt like he was going backwards and forwards. He had no idea how long he was in the back of the wagon for, but he knew that Albert was with him. Talking to him, touching his forehead, patting his shoulder. Then the hired men were dragging him out of the wagon again. On his back, rocking with the motion of their steps, Arthur’s eyes were on the sky.

“Where are we?” he croaked.

“A place called Six Point Cabin,” said Albert at his side, “It’s our place now.”

As he said that, a roof slid into view and the bright daylight diminished as Arthur was moved indoors and placed on a waiting bed. _Six Point Cabin_. Arthur had been here before, it was an O’Driscoll hideout. In his delirium, a panic emerged, thinking he’d been captured again. But as soon as the thought crossed his mind, Albert was there, feeling his forehead again and Arthur closed his eyes at the touch, feeling safe.

“I know I’m a hopeless fool and I know I’m probably making a God awful mess of everything, but I’m trying. I’m trying, and I… I hope you’ll be comfortable here.”

If Albert said anything more, Arthur didn’t hear it.

It wasn’t that long ago when he’d told Sister Calderón _**“I’m afraid.”**_

Arthur was less afraid now. If he died with Albert caring for him, safe and warm, then dying might not be so bad. Death seems less scary when there is someone by your side. Dying alone and unredeemed was what had scared him most, that and the unknown, but John and his family got away, Charles got away, Sadie and the girls got away, and Albert was here. And, it seemed, he had bought a house.


	4. Chapter 4

The days passed by in a blur. Lying beneath a window, Arthur would blink and the light would change. The fireplace would erupt with flame that vanished in a moment, rain would pelt the roof and then silence, sunrises turned to sunsets and bright afternoons to dark midnights. Then another sunrise came, orange light shining in through the east windows, soft like candle flame. A figure hovered over him, a halo of light surrounding them. And he heard the echo of his name, distant, as if Miss Grimshaw was calling him for dinner like she did when he was a boy.

“You had a fever… I thought it would be the end of you.”

The figure moved and revealed itself to be Albert. His usually neat hair was all dishevelled, some of it falling about his face, and he had done away with his vest and the top few buttons of his shirt, with the sleeves rolled above his elbows. Again, not an angel. He hadn’t slept, that much Arthur could tell, but whatever else was happening beneath the surface was less determinable.

“I just want this to be over,” Arthur said with a wheeze, and his wheeze turned into a cough and he cried with the pain, the frustration. His face crumpled, he couldn’t look Albert in the eye. But Albert, having spent days and nights at his bedside waiting for the fever to break or for the end to finally come, he squeezed Arthur’s hand.

“It will be…” he said, “One way or another.”

* * *

The next days and weeks passed with such vividity, in stark comparison to when they’d first arrived at the cabin. Arthur could describe each day’s activities and occurrences in detail, if only he had a journal. Being out of Valentine was the best thing to have happened in a long time. It was quieter, cleaner, and Arthur enjoyed sitting out on the porch where Kieran Duffy had saved his life. He thought of him from time to time and felt such deep regret. And thinking about Kieran led him to think about everyone else too. Dark moments, they were. So consuming with their grief, their hatred. He’d sit there, seething at those last images he had of Dutch... But then he’d also remember Mary-Beth’s smile or Javier playing his guitar, and he’d feel almost okay. He missed them, terribly, but where he was now… It was for the best, as burdensome as he felt.

Albert brought him coffee and things to do and read and they were both quite content. Things were less tense out here, the stress of Arthur’s illness was still there of course, but it was no longer constant. After surviving the fever and the move, it seemed as though the disease might never get to kill Arthur, as strong as he was.

It was in this relaxed time out on the porch that they learned more about each other because what else is there to do when waiting for death and all you have is each other’s company? Albert told Arthur of his life back east, his childhood, his family. He even shared some secrets but kept the rest to himself. And Albert, in turn, was captivated by Arthur’s stories. Some details were omitted, his life of crime would remain as much a secret as was possible, but even without the more exciting tales, Albert would listen and was quiet when Arthur had to pause to cough. He’d often put his hand on his knee, telling him to take it slow. When he reached around from behind Arthur’s chair to give him his cup of coffee, he’d squeeze his shoulder.

Slowly, surely, something began to happen. The affection that had once been an act of bravery was now a natural instinct for Albert. And not once did Arthur so much as acknowledge the small brave touches, until one day the coffee cup appeared from over his shoulder.

“Here you are.”

Albert’s lingering hand began to slide back over his shoulder, but Arthur caught it with his free hand. It startled Albert, and he gave a little gasp.

“Sorry,” said Arthur, and he withdrew his hand, “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

Albert smiled,

“You don’t scare me at all, sir.”

Albert drew his chair closer and sat with Arthur, who sipped his coffee reservedly. Albert made the best coffee Arthur had ever had in his life. Drinking it made him feel like a real gentleman in a café. How he ever survived on that swill he brewed in his rusty percolator that always tasted faintly of bacon, Arthur will never understand.

Now sitting right beside him, their elbows almost touching, Albert looked excited,

“I was thinking we could move south soon,” he said with a happy hopefulness that Arthur himself rarely spoke with.

“South?”

“To New Austin specifically. They say a dry climate is good for the lungs.”

“But you just bought this place,” Arthur chuckled, waving his cup over their view of the forest.

“It’ll still be here.”

There was a long pause. Albert was serious. And Arthur had come to learn that when Albert was serious about something, he was going to do it. He’d committed himself to his wildlife photography, to Arthur’s health, had brought him to Valentine, then brought him out here. There was every possibility that he’d bring him to New Austin as well. A thousand excuses ran through Arthur’s mind, but all he ended up saying was,

“I can’t go.”

“Why not? You’re much stronger than you were, I really think you’re getting better— moving down there could help you even more!”

“I said I _can’t_!” Arthur snapped. He set down his cup, only half empty, or maybe half full, he couldn’t decide.

“Arthur…” Albert began, whispering his name with the loss of his excitement, and Arthur looked away, ashamed of the way he’d spoken to the man who’d given him his life back, given him everything, but just wishing that he’d drop the subject.

“... If this is about what happened to you, I don’t ever ask or pry, because you obviously don’t like to talk about it, but I have your best interests at heart. New Austin could be very good for you, and I think you owe it to me to explain this one thing. Just one thing, Arthur.”

“It’s a long story.”

“It’s always a long story,” laughed Albert, but it was without any real humour, laced with sarcasm, “Just— give me the basics,” he said, “What is the _fundamental_ reason why you _‘can’t’_ go to New Austin?”

Arthur sighed and reluctantly he said,

“It’s not about New Austin, exactly… It’s about places on the way to New Austin.”

“Okay…”

“I’m… I’m a wanted man, Albert.”

Albert had thought as much, but Arthur had never told him before, he feared that he’d leave and he’d be alone again. But maybe Albert deserved to know the kind of company he was keeping.

“And down there…” Arthur continued, lifting his gaze to meet Albert’s, “That’s where I’m wanted most. I ain’t been in Blackwater for a year but I can guarantee that they will still know my name and face, posters everywhere. It’s dangerous, risky. And the last thing I want is for you to be involved in that mess”

“I see.”

That was all Albert said. Arthur had never known the talkative man to be so wordless, so curt. Albert didn’t mean to be curt, he just didn’t know what to say. He said such silly things all the time, he was afraid to open his mouth and let the nonsense come out in a moment such as this, a moment of revelation. Though truth be told, in a moment such as this Arthur could have done with a little nonsense.

* * *

A few weeks passed and Albert did not abandon the outlaw as Arthur had feared. In fact, they didn’t speak on the matter again at all, and the little cabin and the land it sat on was feeling more like home every day. More furniture was brought in, including an old green settee, where they often sat together, Arthur’s arm trailing across the back, enveloping Albert who sat quite purposefully still.

Arthur wasn’t sure he’d have much to put in a journal anymore, but he managed to fill the first dozen pages of the blank book Albert had gifted him with tellings of their days and conversations and even the odd sketch. His drawings weren’t what they used to be; now uninspired, lacking. He wasn’t adventuring anymore, wasn’t discovering, but what he did discover every day was Albert. He paid attention to each line of his face, slowly committing everything to memory as his pencil moved across the page. Arthur liked to watch him stretch that familiar face when trimming his moustache, how he tugged his vest whenever he stood up, and the way his thick fingers folded one by one over the grip of a pan as he cooked. Such small inconsequential details that became more important as Arthur came to expect them.

Mary had left him because of his way of life. Now that Albert knew who he really was, he did not react the same way. Maybe he didn’t care, maybe he liked it, or maybe Arthur’s way of life was changing so it didn’t matter anymore anyway. Arthur was just glad that he was still there for him every day.


	5. Chapter 5

The door to the general store chimed as it opened, and again when Albert closed it.

“Mr Mason!” greeted the shopkeeper. He was a tall man for whom Albert had not had the opportunity to learn the name of even after months of living in this small part of the world. Or, more likely, he’d forgotten it.

“Good afternoon,” Albert said with a polite smile. He approached the bench with his list of supplies, but his unnamed acquaintance was hesitant to take it.

“Just so you know,” the shopkeeper lowered his voice, “there’s men about, asking after your _friend._”

“What?”

“A couple of detectives they said they was. They’re tryin’ to talk to just about everyone in town. I thought I’d warn you.”

Albert’s heart dropped and his skin turned cold, like plunging through ice. The shopkeeper could probably see him paling.

“Yes, thank you…” he managed to say, for he was grateful, “Did they say why they’re looking for him?”

“Oh, that’s none of my business. But I don’t think they’re wanting to throw him a party if you know what I mean.”

Albert racked his brain trying to think who knew where Arthur was. The bank, the hotel owner, the men who helped move Arthur, they knew the story. Well, some of it. It was only a matter of time before these detectives knew it too.

“Where are they now?”

“The hotel, I think. Saw ‘em cross the street after they left here a few minutes ago. Started off in the saloon.”

“Shit. Damn it all to hell. I have to go.”

Albert slapped the bench with as much anger as he could muster, and walked away with a stinging palm.

“You don’t know he’ll talk!” the shopkeeper called after him.

“And I don’t know he won’t!”

Albert didn’t look back as he headed back home in a rush, the wagon empty of supplies. On the way, Albert thought about what Arthur could have possibly done for these men to hunt him down and be prepared to take him in knowing how ill he is. But criminal or not, Arthur was his friend and under his protection.

* * *

“That was quick. You forget your purse?”

Albert hurriedly shut the door and stood in front of the settee, so close his knee was pressed up against the stain on the side. Arthur looked up from his book to see Albert shaking, sweating, and looking rather anxious. Arthur sat up.

“The men you said could still be looking for you?” Albert asked in his quavering voice.

“Pinkertons?” said Arthur, breathlessly.

“They’re in Valentine right now.”

Arthur threw down his book, not minding about not saving his page. He had known that this day would come, had tried to convince himself otherwise, but he had always known he hadn’t deserved to survive. His time had come. There was no use in hiding. He thought it over, thought about Albert. They’d arrest him too for helping him.

With a little help from Albert, Arthur stood up.

“Do they know we’re here?” he asked.

“They will soon if they don’t already… What do we do?”

“_We?_” scoffed Arthur, “Don’t do anything. I’ll turn myself in.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“As serious as tuberculosis.”

“Arthur—”

“I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done,” said Arthur, taking Albert’s hands in his and clasping them tightly. Albert’s heart fluttered at the sudden affection. The bony but firm fingers enveloped his hands easily, and seemingly his whole self. Arthur’s eyes, brighter than they had been before, were full of something that Albert knew to be reflected in his own as he looked at Arthur too, something that he never expected to recognise in another, at least not when they were looking at _him_. Something that could be_ love_.

“No! You are not thanking me yet, this is not the end!”

Albert threw down their clasped hands. He wasn’t going to lose him now, not after everything they’d been through. As expected, Arthur was less committed.

“I can’t do it anymore,” he said, “I’m so goddamn tired of runnin’. There ain’t nothin’ we can do now. They will come up here with a whole damn firing squad,” at this realisation, his tone grew desperate, “You should leave—”

“No—”

“You should leave and forget about this whole mess. You don’t deserve what will happen if you stay. Not after what you’ve done. You’re a _saint,_ Mr Mason.”

Ignoring everything Arthur had just said, including the old habit of address, Albert took Arthur’s arm,

“We can still go to New Austin.”

“New Austin!? Folk who want nothing more than to see me dead and you in prison are on our doorstep and you wanna start plannin’ a vacation?!”

With laughter behind his words, Arthur coughed and continued coughing as Albert explained,

“We can get a train.”

“From Valentine? In your dreams.”

“If they even know about the train, they’ll think we went to Lemoyne, which would be true, but we’d get a boat to West Elizabeth from Saint Denis, then travel to Tumbleweed from there. I’ve heard it’s a nice town,”

Albert finished with a shrug. Despite his instincts and the time pressure, Arthur took the time to consider the idea. His heart ached for it to be achievable. He wanted it to happen, but the risk was so great, and he’d just die if anything happened to Albert. He still didn’t understand why Albert stuck with him. Surely by now, he had returned the favour of life more times than was necessary. Arthur sat back down on the settee,

“You’ve already thought about this haven’t you?”

“At great length.”

“How many Pinkertons are actually in town right now?” Arthur asked, wiping over his mouth and stroking his beard.

“I believe two.”

“Just scouts then…” his eyes lit up, “It could work… When they find out we’re here they’ll send for more men, under the assumption that we don’t know they’re coming. They won’t have time to beat the train.”

It was his plan, but Albert was apprehensive. His voice trembled with the same mixture of trepidation and pure excitement that he spoke with on his wildlife adventures,

“I said I’d take care of you and that is precisely what I’m going to do.”

The bags they packed were light. Albert took his camera, of course, and Arthur his journal, but they left most everything else. The train would arrive on the hour. Arthur sighed into his seat on the wagon. He’d done this too many times. Pack up and run. It was for this reason that he never attached himself places, knowing that he’d someday leave them. Though it was hard not to get attached this time, to that little cabin that he shared with Albert. It was their _home_. What had once been a place of violence and contempt had become their peaceful abode. Where they drank coffee and talked and ate their meals on plates instead of from a can. It was the place where they slept in peace and had all the time in the world to do what they wanted. Now everything was changing again.

“Albert,” said Arthur as they set off, “whatever happens… These last few weeks have been some of the best of my life.”

Albert was quiet for a moment, feeling the reins between his hands. Unlike Arthur, Albert hadn’t expected something like this to happen. In the beginning, when he had made his vow, he expected things to end with Arthur succumbing to his illness or driving him away. But neither had happened and as time went on and they settled into a sort of hominess here in the forest, Albert wanted more and more for things to never end.

“Me too,” he said, “But we’ll be back. We will.”

* * *

They made it back down to Valentine and through town with no sign of any Pinkertons. Walking into the train station, Albert retrieved a note from his pocket. On it he had handwritten the entire timetable along with a mess of notes and arrows. Amazed, Arthur said,

“You’ve thought of just about everything.”

Inside with the clerks and a few others present, Albert was hushed,

“When you told me you’re wanted, and about the detectives who were chasing you, I got nervous. So I came up with a plan just in case!”

Arthur coughed lightly, clearing his throat, and nodded towards the ticket desk. Albert smiled and gave Arthur a pat on the arm before walking over.

What a good outlaw he could have made. Dutch would be jealous… Dutch… Did they get him in the end? Is he dead? Something told Arthur no. He’d surely know if Dutch van der Linde was dead. It’s the sort of thing you notice, an instinct, and not just because it would be printed in every newspaper in the country.

When they were settled, waiting on the platform, Albert took a deep breath and opened his camera bag.

“Speaking of all my planning, I also got this just in case. I’d be more comfortable if you had it.”

It was a gun. A dark grey, slightly rusted double-action revolver with an ironwood grip. Albert hurriedly pushed it into his hands. It was cold and felt heavy, fully-loaded. Arthur wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. His thumb traced the smooth grain of the grip, and his finger fiddled with the safety, not enough to flick it, but enough to make a slight clicking sound. He used to hear this sound every day. Finally, he tucked it into his pants. Albert had given him a gun, something he had once attached his identity to, now he was hesitant to hold it. _What the hell had happened to him?_

The train pulled up and Albert practically leapt off the bench. He helped Arthur onto the train and they sat on the left side of the second car. The seats were comfortable; cushioned and clean. It was almost enough to get Albert to relax a little.

“We made it,” Arthur whispered to him. Albert flicked his attention from the window and smiled shakily. The rest of him was trembling too. This little adventure was putting more fear into him than he was letting on. Arthur took his trembling hand and brought it to his lips. He gently kissed the back of his hand, and the little black hairs bristled where his lips had been. Albert gasped. Arthur smiled.

Then a coach pulled up, waiting on the other side of the tracks for the train to move. Arthur watched them through the window on the other side of the car. Men in bowler hats, men with guns.

“Shit,” he hissed.

Agent Ross was there on top, next to a severe-looking man with square features to contrast Ross’ roundness. It was his new partner, agent Fordham. Arthur would never learn his name, but Fordham knew Arthur’s and so much more. The agency had known he was sick, thought he’d be dead by now, but there had been news of a man being nursed in Valentine after moving from Roanoke, and this pair of detectives were sent to investigate. Now they were returning with backup just like Arthur knew they would.

Albert followed where Arthur was looking.

“Damn,” he said, “Spoke too soon, huh?”

“No, no they haven’t seen me. Just don’t look at them, don’t get their attention.”

“Okay.”

How long does a train stop last? Five minutes? It felt like an hour. They just sat there, sweating, every voice from outside making Albert’s heart jump. The gun was uncomfortable in Arthur’s waistband, it dug into him, and made him so aware of its being there. All he was thinking about was the gun, the Pinkertons, Albert, and:

“Why isn’t the train moving?”

It was something of a rhetorical question. Albert’s mind raced with possibilities. He mostly imagined the men in bowler hats halting the train to board it. The thought terrified him.

“Oh my!” Albert suddenly cried, and Arthur, puzzled and nervous, looked out the window. Two Pinkertons had gotten off the coach and had walked around the train, they were coming up to the station.

“Arthur get down!” Albert hissed, and Arthur obliged. He yanked the revolver from his pants and leaned forward with it, hiding beneath the window. It was just as well he did because a second later one of the detectives was absently looking at the train and up at Albert, whose tight smile of acknowledgement was enough to make him look away, and they headed inside. Then the train began to chug and slowly they pulled away from the platform. Arthur sat back up, coughing as he did so.

“I think we actually made it now,” he said once he had caught his breath. Albert’s hand slipped out of his in order to retrieve a handkerchief to make himself less of a sweating mess. Arthur realised that he had never stopped holding his hand. The gun went back into the camera bag.


	6. Chapter 6

Half a year passed and Albert and Arthur saw the seasons change in Tumbleweed. The place was still warm in winter, comfortable. It was in this comfortable winter air that they found themselves in some six months after ending their journey, enjoying a drink out on the saloon balcony that overlooked the tiny town.

“Arthur?” Albert said suddenly.

“Yeah?”

“There’s a doctor in town this week.”

“I feel _fine_.”

“Exactly. When was the last time you coughed?”

“… I don’t remember.”

After everything he’d gone through up until walking down that mountain. After everything Albert had helped him through after he reached the bottom. After all the negative outlooks and close calls with his health and the law, he might actually live… And, Arthur was realising, he actually wanted to.

* * *

Dr Alphonse Renaud’s little wagon, full of tools and tinctures, was stationed across from the chapel. After the doctor and Arthur recognised each other from the time Arthur had rescued that very wagon and they had had their funny little reunion, Arthur was examined. Dr Renaud may not have been a Saint Denis doctor with an office and staff, but he was an educated man and way out in Tumbleweed such expertise was greatly appreciated.

Putting his stethoscope away, Dr Renaud concluded in his eccentric Lemoyne drawl,

“This is still a disease that you will never fully recover from, as there is still bacteria in your lungs, but it is my professional opinion that you are healthy enough to return to non-laborious work, and you’re certainly not contagious. You’re very lucky, Mr Kilgore.”

“So how long will he live?” asked Albert, stepping forward as Arthur did up the rest of his shirt buttons.

“It’s difficult to say. You could become sick again at any time, and any other mild sickness could antagonise the TB and, well, kill you. But if you take care of yourself, I have no reason to believe that you will not be with us for many years to come.”

Arthur looked at Albert. How glad he was to hear this news, and how overjoyed Albert seemed. Lucky is right. With all this luck he’s had perhaps he’d become a gambling man.

* * *

They drank again that night, in celebration. It was quiet, the dusty town seemed so empty, like they were the only ones there. Arthur was busy examining his hand. He put it on Albert’s which was resting on the railing. They were matching in size. Gone were the days of his thin alien fingers. Things were as they should be once more. He lifted his head taking a deep clean breath, and chuckled a little.

“Now that you’re well again… What will you do?” asked Albert, shy as he spoke, but his actions were less so. He picked up Arthur’s hand and toyed with it, swaying in movement and entwining thick fingers with his own.

“I don’t know,” Arthur sighed with a frown, “I didn’t expect to still be here.”

“Will you look for your friends? For John?”

There was a long pause. Albert thought maybe he should not have said anything, and he pulled his hand out of Arthur’s. Then Arthur gently took him by the arm to face him.

“Maybe one day I’ll see them again. But right now I just wanna go _home_. With you.”

It was funny to think that what happened next was their first real kiss. Over these long months, and the short ones, small kisses had been shared. They made Arthur’s heart race all the same, but there’s something about lips meeting lips that is unlike anything else. They felt like they were melting together, like warm honey. They held each other close, with hands on faces and hips and shoulders, and their chests swelled against each other as they breathed. An arm wound its way over Arthur’s shoulder and up the back of his neck and into his hair, and Albert concluded that all the pain and hardship and poverty had been worth it for this one moment, for the promise of a happy future. The fresh air and sunshine, it seemed, had done them both good.


End file.
